


Dirk: stop fighting it

by Laylah



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Established Relationship, First Time Kink, Flushed Romance, Kink Negotiation, M/M, Omorashi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-10
Updated: 2014-06-10
Packaged: 2018-02-04 03:03:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,213
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1763617
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Laylah/pseuds/Laylah
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He huffs. "Because it makes you look helpless," he admits. "I know you're not! I know that. I'm not insulting your fucking manly prowess or whatever, just—"</p>
<p>You kiss him, and the last of the excuse gets lost, mumbled into your mouth.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Dirk: stop fighting it

"Because it's pitiful, that's why!" he snaps when you press the issue. "Because it makes you look—" He stops, glaring at you from under his beetle brows. "You're going to get offended."

"If you keep holding out on me, yeah," you say, and Karkat bares his teeth at you in frustration. "Come on. I'm a big boy. I can handle the down and dirty secrets of your kink."

He huffs. "Because it makes you look helpless," he admits. "I know you're not! I know that. I'm not insulting your fucking manly prowess or whatever, just—"

You kiss him, and the last of the excuse gets lost, mumbled into your mouth. He kisses back like he's starving for you, and you might not entirely grok romantic pity but you're at least close enough to get a little flutter in your collapsing and expanding bladder-based vascular pump at that idea. He was afraid to tell you about this, but more afraid he'd offend you if he held back. He wants you to be happy with him.

You only pull back just far enough to talk. "Because it would make me look helpless," you murmur. "Because it does things to you, picturing me desperate." You're pretty neutral on piss as a substance, don't have strong feelings about it one way or another. But that kind of framing makes something queasy and flip-floppy happen in your gut—the idea of hitting the limits of your self-control, of Karkat wanting to see you in that position.

"Of course it does," he says, trying to match your tone. His voice gets scratchy and hoarse when he's trying to control his volume, and you love that. "You put so much into being controlled and on top of shit all the time, the idea of that breaking down is...."

"Swoonworthy?" you suggest. "Spank bait?"

"Ugh, shut up." He shoves you, rolling his eyes. "You can just say no."

"I can," you agree. "I'm saying yes, though."

* * *

The lead-up to this particular scene is some of the most understated foreplay you've ever engaged in, and you like to think you're generally a pretty subtle guy. But this goes on for most of the evening, in public, and nobody but the two of you has a clue. Every time you take a drink of your soda, you're thinking about what comes later, and every time Karkat offers to get you a refill, you'd bet he is too.

"Would you just get a room already," Dave says eventually, when Karkat asks for the third time if you need anything. Karkat puffs up like he's going to yell.

"Okay," you say before he can get started. You take his hand, Dave groans something about not wanting the mental images, and Jade gives you a thumbs up as you head for the stairs.

"Oh my god," Karkat says as he follows you. "I can't believe you. He's going to be imagining—"

"Something a lot less interesting than what's really going on," you say. (You're still confused sometimes about how Dave can be so apparently comfortable with vanilla. Did the Strilonde ecto-soup not have enough kink juice to go around?)

Karkat clears his throat like he's banishing the specter of Dave. "Um. How are you doing?"

"Good," you say. "A little antsy." Maybe more than a little, but you're sort of hesitant to get his hopes up, or something. That was a lot of soda, though, and your nerves are jangling on top of it.

You let him into your room and he kisses you as soon as the door is safely closed—for all that he clearly needs affection constantly, Karkat's at least as cagey as you are about touching where other people can watch. So the first moment when you're alone together is always this sort of dam-breaking occasion that you have to ride out before anything else. This time you just have another dam further upriver that's threatening to spill, too. You suppress a shiver.

Karkat's eyes are wide when he pulls back, and you have another moment of sympathy with the romantic pity idea, because that nervous-and-hopeful look just kills you. He slides one hand between you, pressing it low against your belly.

"So," you say. "You want me any particular way? Because I might have been giving it some thought and I have a suggestion or two."

"You—okay I shouldn't be surprised, Mr. Compulsive Puppetmaster, but fuck. Are you sure we're not doing this to satisfy one of _your_ repressed kinky desires?"

You shrug. "If we happen to come up with something mutually beneficial, I don't see the problem, do you? Not that I'm admitting to anything."

"No, heaven forbid you ever express an honest emotion without couching it in layers of defensive bullshit," Karkat says. "Let's hear your suggestions."

You have a low table in your room that, in its former life, probably held art books and cups of coffee and maybe the occasional seasonal centerpiece. Now it mostly serves as a stage for smuppet dioramas of life and death and perversity. But if you sweep it clear, like you do now, it's a pretty excellent surface for a guy to stretch out on. And it has attachment points at both ends, which your mattress does not, and that's handy if you want to use—

"Rope?" Karkat says as you produce some. "Time out, Strider."

"No?" The way your stomach lurches at him balking is worlds more unpleasant than the way it felt to have the subject of helplessness come up in the first place. Maybe you understand the way he needs to feel wanted. You keep your face and your voice as unaffected as possible. "I thought desperate helplessness was the draw, here."

"Yeah, but—I don't want to... fuck, it sounds stupid." You raise an eyebrow and he looks away, blushing. "I don't want to be the bad guy."

You start marshaling your thoughts for a discussion of BDSM, consent, and the theoretical possibility that you would find it interesting to be restrained. Then something twinges in your lower back, around kidney habitat; maybe you can shelve that discussion for later. "Okay. What do you want?"

"Just...you," Karkat says, because he's the biggest romantic ever. "Um. Stretched out on your back. No, stay dressed," he adds as you reach for your belt.

Okay, that makes sense. If he's kinked for the helplessness aspect, having you soak your jeans would be a big visual cue. You stretch out across the table, your knees hanging off one end so your feet are on the floor, and you reach up above your head to take hold of the table legs. You'll restrain yourself, if he doesn't want to do it: you aren't allowed to let go until you've seen this thing through. You watch Karkat's gaze rake up and down the length of your body, the way he lingers at crotch level. "Well?"

He steps up next to you—and takes your shades off. You instinctively look away, then make yourself look back. "How does it feel?" he asks.

You're not entirely sure how the script should go. "Full," you try hesitantly. "A little uncomfortable?" You can't tell if that will trip the bad-guy button.

Looks like no. Karkat straddles your thighs, his weight pressing you down, pulling the skin of your abdomen tighter. Your breath hisses in through your teeth. Karkat's pupils dilate. "Yeah," he breathes. "Tough to hold it in, huh?" He rests his hands on your hipbones, his thumbs stroking the front of your jeans, which puts gentle pressure on your bladder and also applies friction in the general neighborhood of your dick. You squeeze your eyes shut to try not to react, then remember that he can see that right now and open them again. He rubs a little harder.

You squirm. Karkat's solid as a battlebot on top of you and almost as heavy; he's going nowhere. "I can't just... do it," you warn him. Part of you wants to, to relieve the discomfort and give him what he wants, but it's overruled by the part of you that recognizes "pissing yourself" as high on the list of Things You Just Don't Do and has the facilities on lockdown.

"I know," Karkat says. He sounds so gentle, you almost don't recognize him. "You hate losing control of a situation. You freak right the fuck out when anyone sees you screw up."

"Who are we talking about here?" you ask, and then whine embarrassingly as Karkat cups your dick through your jeans and kneads.

"You make it look better than I ever have." You focus on Karkat's voice, trying not to pay too much attention to the bloated ache of your bladder or the way that signal crosses with your tentative stiffie. "And this is why, isn't it? You can't make yourself let go of anything."

This would be so much _easier_ with the rope, and perversely that makes you appreciate that he wouldn't use it. You tighten your grip on the table legs as your body tries to squirm out from under Karkat's hands. The stretched-out position makes this just as difficult and uncomfortable as you thought it would, which you knew you would need to have any hope of this working, but you're still angry that past you would think of it and glad that asshole is getting his comeuppance now.

"You need some help?" Karkat asks. You grit your teeth, can't quite say it, and he shakes his head with a smile. "I figured as much." He slips his hands under your shirt and drags his claws up your sides, so lightly it makes you tense every muscle you have. You're trembling, your breath harsh little pants, and then he finds a spot under your arms that makes you jerk away reflexively.

You clamp down on your control again as fast as you can, but there's a warm, wet spot on the front of your jeans. Your cheeks burn. Karkat brings a hand back down and touches it, stroking the head of your dick through the piss-soaked fabric. 

" _Fuck_ ," you say, and it comes out choked. "I—I can't—"

"You can," Karkat says. His voice has the purr harmonics in it that usually mean you're fucking him just the way he likes it. "You can do it. Just let go."

He presses down harder, kneading your swollen bladder, and forces another short spurt of piss out of you. You swallow a noise that really wants to be a sob, closing your eyes again. He'll know this is wrecking you, but you just can't look at him right now. You arch your back, pushing into his hands, increasing the pressure and willing yourself to just _stop fighting it_ , and this time when the flow starts it doesn't stop, soaking your skin and your clothes and his hands while you make a long series of desperate noises you can't silence.

"Oh my god," he's saying as he milks the last of it out of you, "oh my god," pulling your jeans open with shaking hands. You stiffen in his hands almost ridiculously fast, given the circumstances, and if it ever comes up you're going to blame the noises he's making, especially when they turn into your name: "Dirk," he's gasping as he gets rid of his own pants and straddles your hips, "Oh my god, Dirk," and his nook is _sopping_ when he drives himself down on you.

You let go of the table so you can put your arms around him and he kisses you, deeply and with feeling. You know by now that this is the actual measure of how turned on Karkat is—not what his junk is doing, but the amount of affection the rest of him is displaying. Right now? You'd estimate you have a two-minute fuse here, maybe less. Holy shit.

You move right into your favorite tempo, slow and deep, on the line between passionate and actually rough. He purrs at you and you moan back, holding on tighter. Pushing Karkat's kink buttons might be your new favorite thing—all his drive and passion focused on the fact that you just gave him something he loves.

His purring turns into whimpering, and you snake one hand down between you to push him over the edge—you've barely squeezed his bulge when he loses it, rippling around you and shuddering through an orgasm that's noisy even for him. You speed up, fucking up into him toward your own peak. 

"Yes," he says, "yes, yes," even though you _know_ he gets uncomfortably sensitive after he comes—and then he adds, "just let go," the same way he did before, and the kinky echo sets you off. It feels like a reprise, like the real relief was the first kind and this is just a bonus.

When you go still, Karkat is looking down at you, his face full of this completely unguarded tenderness that you still don't know how you ever earned. You try not to dwell on that; you let yourself smile. "So. Does this pity party have a chance of moving to the shower from here?"

He smiles back. "Of course it does," he says. "You're a mess."


End file.
